


You Can Have My Everything

by curds_and_wheyface



Category: Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: 'strangers', Armpit Kink, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, M/M, Sexual Violence, Spanking, deep-throating, dom-sub type dynamic, unexpected shmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8425426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/pseuds/curds_and_wheyface
Summary: Tom's damaged goods who needs rough treatment in order to get off. Thankfully, Chris is around to give him what he needs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this filth came from, it's pretty hardcore. Heed the tags, folks.
> 
> As always, many thanks to the loves of my life, [umakoo](http://pohjanneito.tumblr.com/) and [Selene](http://sheilatakesabow.tumblr.com/), for hand-holding and proof-reading and convincing me I didn't go too far this time.

Chris is eighteen minutes late.

Tom knows it's on purpose, and that his frazzled nerves are the desired result, but he's had a bad week and he needs this. He needs it right now.

When the knock finally comes, four strong raps on the door, Chris is late by twenty seven minutes and Tom’s hands are shaking around a glass of untouched water.

He takes a deep, wobbly breath as he opens the door, relief flooding him at the mere sight of Chris’s face. He has a beard today, a leather jacket clinging to his broad shoulders, and a beanie hat pulled down over the tips of his ears to fend off the cold. The tip of his nose is slightly pink but his blue eyes are piercing as always.

He gives Tom a once-over, appraising, and then nods. It's enough to send a pool of heat to the pit of Tom’s belly.

Inviting himself inside, as he always does, Chris half-turns to close the door with one hand, and with the other he reaches out and takes hold of Tom by the throat. His fingers are freezing, his palm a solid weight against Tom’s windpipe, and Tom doesn’t fight when he’s shoved back against the wall. His head thuds against the plasterboard but Chris doesn’t apologise, stepping in close to impose himself into Tom’s space.

The spice of cologne hits Tom’s senses as he struggles to suck in a last good breath, and he's disappointed to find not even a note of Chris’s own scent beneath it.

His focus shifts as Chris tightens his hold, a careful squeeze designed to leave him just short of breath, and instinctively he swallows, feeling the swell of his throat fight against Chris’s hand.

A calloused thumb drags roughly against his bottom lip leaving a damp smudge in its wake, and then with little warning Chris is leaning in to take Tom’s mouth, using the grip around his throat to keep him still.

Eyes watering already from the chokehold, Tom dutifully parts his lips for Chris’s seeking tongue; not just because he’s well-behaved but because he’s desperate for it, has wanted it all week, _needed_ it all week. Chris’s mouth and hands on him hot and demanding, searing him like a brand of ownership.

There’s nothing teasing about it, nothing playful; Chris takes ownership of Tom’s mouth with tongue and lips and teeth.

By the time Chris pulls back and loosens his hold Tom feels lightheaded and his cheeks are wet, his lower lashes heavy and damp with unfallen tears. Chris’s mouth twitches in an almost-smile.

-

Usually they go into the bedroom but today Chris guides him into the living room. They’ve never fucked here before and Tom can’t help but pause in the doorway to glance around, wondering if it’ll change the room, change how he feels in it, if he’ll ever be able to sit and watch TV again without the heat of arousal in his belly.

Impatient, Chris pushes him forward, a hard shove between his shoulderblades that has him stumbling. His heartbeat kicks up a notch.

“Take your clothes off.”

It’s an order, almost dismissive, as Chris moves past him further into the room. In long strides he heads towards the window, skin tinted yellow-orange as he looks out briefly.

Tom lives on the second floor, his window overlooked by nothing but winding old trees, but he's still grateful when Chris pulls the blinds down.

That done, he slowly unzips his leather jacket. He’s not putting on a show, he’s distracted by the pictures and silly ornaments on Tom’s window ledge, but every inch of the rasping zipper feels like electricity down Tom’s spine.

Ordinarily Tom wouldn’t wear anything beneath his jeans at home, but an hour ago he’d fucked himself open with his fingers on Chris’s orders, got himself ‘good and wet’ like Chris had said, and so he’d tugged on a pair of clean, white boxer briefs for fear of ruining the seat of his jeans.

He’s got his fingers in the waistband when Chris comes back to him, white cotton t-shirt almost too tight across his biceps and chest. He’s not a lot taller than Tom but he’s bigger, more imposing, and when he pulls Tom close there's no arguing.

“You can leave those on for now,” he murmurs softly, dipping his mouth close to Tom’s ear. His voice is gravel-rough but still it's like a balm to Tom, a promise of relief. “You did what I asked?”

He nods. Of course he did what Chris asked - he always does what Chris asks.

Heat prickles his cheeks, flushing all the way to the tips of his ears, as Chris’s palms slip down and around, taking the meat of his arse in rough handfuls that threaten to lift him from the ground. He lets out a small sound and grips firm, muscled forearms, tracing a thick vein with his thumb to ground himself.

Dropping a kiss to his shoulder, Chris digs his fingers in deeper, squeezes harder, and Tom feels his cheeks part, sticky-wet.

He knows the material at the tips of Chris’s fingers must be soaked with lube and lets out a shuddering breath as the tip of Chris’s index finger slides down the cleft.

“Bet you enjoyed playing with yourself, didn't you?” he whispers, breath hot against the shell of Tom’s ear. “So good for me.”

He sounds so pleased Tom nearly preens. He needs approval almost as much as he needs brutality, and the heady mix of both that Chris provides him with never fails to make him weak.

“Did you fuck yourself?” Rubbing at Tom’s hole through the material, Chris leans closer still and lets the harsh bristles of his short beard drag along Tom’s cheek. It burns, a good, sharp kind of burn that contrasts starkly with the sweet buzz of the finger circling his hole. Without thought he arches his back into the touch.

“Yes,” he lets out on a moan, slipping his hands up Chris’s biceps. He’d had three fingers inside himself to the knuckles, lube running down his wrist as he fucked himself open, impatient for Chris’s arrival. He tries not to touch himself too much between visits, to make it all the more intense when Chris is here, but it means that prepping himself is akin to torture.

Chris’s hand slips beneath the elastic of his underwear, fingers making a beeline for Tom’s slick entrance. At the slightest touch of his fingertip, calloused and insistent, Tom’s breath hitches.

“Did you make yourself come?”

It’s a laughable question - Chris knows Tom wouldn’t dare - but it’s all part of the game. Looking up with wide, innocent eyes Tom murmurs, “No. No, I was good.”

He loves the way Chris looks at him, like he’s something pretty and precious to be ruined, like he’s made for Chris to use up and then put away. There’s something like tenderness there too, beneath, and Tom clings to it despite the cruelty in Chris's words. “Bet you can’t anyway, can you? Can’t come without a fat cock stuffed in your sloppy hole. You're like a broken little toy, need me to come and fix you up.”

Twisting his fingers in the softness of Chris’s white cotton t-shirt, Tom whines and presses his face into his shoulder. He can come, but it’s not _good_ , it’s not like it is with Chris. Maybe he is broken.

“You’re so greedy for it, aren’t you? Need me deep inside.” As he says it he pushes the pad of his finger past Tom’s resistance, rough enough that Tom hitches up onto his tiptoes. He’s already hard and Chris must feel it against him. “Oh, baby, look at the state of you. Not going to satisfy you like this, am I?”

And just like that the finger is gone, and Tom feels like a child who's had his toy snatched away. Chris’s hands slip up to rest, palm flat, at the centre of his back, and glancing up Tom finds himself being watched. He drops his eyes meekly.

Softly, the knuckles of Chris’s other hand stroke the sharp line of his cheekbone, thumb slipping down to press at his lips again. “So slutty for me,” he whispers, pressing his thumb between Tom’s lips, against his teeth, until he opens his mouth.

“You been working?”

A frown creases Tom’s forehead and he flashes his eyes back to Chris’s face. They don't do this - they don't talk about their lives outside of this. They're strangers, that's always been the deal. He offers a hesitant nod.

“I think about you, you know,” Chris says softly, almost dreamily, compressing Tom’s tongue beneath his thumb. “Going about your days, surrounded by people who have no idea what you are. How worthless you are when you're not stuffed full of cock and come.”

It's possible that Chris doesn't know how much truth there is to his words, and humiliation sparks a heat in Tom’s cheeks. There's an even more potent heat between his legs, though, and he closes his lips around Chris’s thumb and begins to suckle.

Chris sighs, pleased, eyes softer than usual and mouth pulled into something approaching a smile, and for a moment Tom makes the mistake of letting his guard down.

Almost as if a switch has been flicked Chris’s expression hardens and he hooks his thumb behind Tom’s front teeth to drag him, sharp and sudden, down onto his knees.

They’re a foot from the rug and the wooden floor hurts as Tom settles but he doesn’t complain, just blinks up at Chris and waits for instruction, breath quickening.

“You want to choke on my cock.” Chris murmurs, voice rough and low. It’s not a question. He slips his thumb free and grips Tom’s chin hard. “Tell me.”

For effect Tom clasps his hands together between his knees like a bastardised prayer, sure to meet Chris’s eyes through the veil of his own lashes as he pleads, “Yes, let me choke on it. Please.”

He needs it. The thought of this, of becoming nothing but a toy for Chris to abuse, is what grounds him day to day when everything else starts to get out of control.

“You know I will,” Chris assures him, patting roughly at his cheek. Not quite a slap yet. He traces Tom’s lips with two fingers - he seems to have a special fondness for Tom’s lips - warning, “You better suck up all the oxygen you can now, because I’m gonna fill that throat. Might even let you pass out.”

It had happened once. Tom had came-to terrified and sucking in deep, wet breaths, unsure for a few seconds what had happened, but Chris had held him through it, rubbing his back and stroking his face until the daze had passed, stopping just short of an apology.

“Please,” Tom mutters, nodding frantically. “Anything.”

_I'm yours._

The second Chris tilts his pelvis forwards and lifts the hem of his t-shirt Tom’s surging up, hands clamouring to grip his hips, nose and mouth pressing against the flat planes of his stomach. He’s warm there, his skin soft over hard muscle, and a trail of dark blond hairs that lead down beneath his jeans like a promise. His body is unreal, beautiful to behold and boasting such strength and capability, and Tom can't get enough.

When searching for what he needed Tom had initially hoped for someone a little more stereotypical - piercings and tattoos, and perhaps a few scars -  but he quickly found that there was much more thrill in having someone as clean-cut and perfect as Chris inflict his desires upon him.

“Can I?” he remembers to ask, but his fingers are already scrambling for the heavy belt buckle. He deals with it in no time, button and zipper too, parting the material quickly, eager for what's inside. Chris allows his impatience, and once his jeans are tugged down his thighs he grasps Tom by the back of his head and shoves his face against the front of his underwear.

With a grateful moan Tom inhales deeply, lungs filling with the sweat and musk of him, the scents he'd been searching for earlier. It's potent here in the crook of his hip, and stronger still as Tom moves lower.

He's allowed to indulge a little, explore, nudging his nose beneath the weight of Chris’s sac through the material. It's akin to worship, the way he breathes him in, and Chris strokes his scalp and the nape of his neck to show he enjoys the attention.

Before he loses patience though, Tom winds his fingers into the waist of Chris’s underwear and tugs, glancing up for permission before pulling them down.

Chris’s thighs are thick with muscle, lovely and solid like the rest of him, but they're not what Tom is after. Between them, heavy and more than half-hard, Chris’s uncut cock is straining for Tom’s attention. The tip of him, dark pink and already beading with precum, is visible beneath the hood of his foreskin and Tom can already imagine the salty tang of it against his tongue.

Mouth watering, he reaches for it with singular purpose, needing to get his hands on it. It's been over a month since Chris’s last visit and it's just too long. Every bruise and mark has faded to nothing and the memory of their last fuck has dulled; he needs Chris’s cock and he'll happily take it however it's offered.

Except that Chris hasn't offered yet, and Tom’s forgotten himself. He's so focused on his goal that he doesn't anticipate the solid flat of Chris’s fingers across his cheek or the sting they leave in their wake. He sucks in a sharp gasp, head turned by the force of it.

“Sorry,” he breathes out, cheek tingling.

There's nothing but silence for a moment, and when he risks a glance up he finds Chris’s eyes alight with fury.

“You think this is yours?” he asks, taking hold of his own cock. Tom shakes his head vehemently but Chris carries on regardless. His voice is steady but there's no denying that he's holding back, anger simmering beneath the surface. It's been awhile since Tom upset him. “This isn't a two-way street, Tom. I own you and you own _nothing_. You don't get to touch me without asking.”

Nodding frantically, Tom aims a pleading look up at him. He knows the rules, he _made them_.

“Do you ask with your hands?” Chris raises a brow. It doesn’t seem to be a rhetorical question so Tom earnestly shakes his head. Chris’s voice is dark with promise when he next speaks. “I'll make you really sorry if you do it again.”

They've been doing this for so long now that Tom can detect in Chris’s voice that, unlike the fleeting mention of letting him choke until he passed out, this one really is a genuine threat. Chris’s jaw is tight, not quite a clench of his teeth, and he’s breathing steadily through his nose. He wants this as much as Tom does, but it'll be on his terms.

“I'll be better,” Tom opens with, sucking in a breath. “I'll be so good, please, I just wanted...I just wanted to make you feel good.”

With his cock still held in his fist, Chris strokes himself, slow and deliberate. This time he's putting on a show, and under Tom’s envious gaze he tightens his stroke at the tip until the clear bead of precum drools from his slit to land on the floor between his feet.

Tom follows it’s descent with his eyes, drawing Chris’s attention to it, and then there’s a thoughtful hum.

Tom realises what’s about to happen just before Chris says it.

“You want my cock so much? Why don’t you lick that up.”

For the first time in a long while Tom hesitates, flicking his gaze around Chris’s face just to make sure he’s serious. He is, he doesn’t joke around. There’s that raised brow again, expectant.

With a shaking breath Tom leans forward, placing his hands down either side of the shining drop on the dark wood. He knows the floor is clean, he always cleans obsessively in preparation for Chris’s arrival, but he’s never been asked to do anything like this before. It seems so...low, so cheap. Regardless, he does as he’s told, licking out with the flat of his tongue. The chemical citrus of cleaning solution hits the back of his throat before the earthier taste of wood comes through, and behind that lingers just a hint of Chris’s precum.

Having shoved himself out of his jeans and underwear completely, Chris drops down to his knees too, thighs spread wide so that his bobbing cock is there in Tom’s face before he can lift himself up.

“Didn’t think you’d do that,” Chris confesses, threading his fingers through the curls at the top of Tom’s head and using them to lift his face. The angle is awkward, Tom’s neck stretched uncomfortably, but Chris only shuffles in further on his knees until the tip of his cock rests against Tom’s bottom lip. “Tell me you want it. Ask nicely.”

“I want it, please,” Tom manages to huff out, all breathy and needy, licking out just enough to catch a taste of Chris’s precum. It's sneaky and could gain him another slap, but he does it anyway, secretly smug when Chris only continues to stare down at him. “Please give it to me.”

Noting Tom’s discomfort in this position, Chris raises up onto his knees and allows Tom to follow. Permission to touch comes in the form of a single, sharp nod, and it's all Tom needs before he's nuzzling and kissing along Chris’s thick length, tonguing along the prominent vein and finally, finally lifting a hand to take Chris in his fist.

It's thick and hot and all for him, and his first stroke evokes a soft hum from Chris’s chest.

Unlike some men, Chris doesn't hold back with his sounds of pleasure; he's strong and commanding but never stoic, letting Tom know with more than words when he's serving his purpose.

Softly he cradles the back of Tom’s head, and with his other hand he removes Tom’s fist from around his cock and strokes his foreskin back to reveal the smooth, shiny tip.

“Suck my cock,” he murmurs, pulling Tom in the last few inches.

A strong burst of flavour hits Tom’s palette as he wraps his lips around the bulbous head and teases the slit, moaning for it, chasing the taste. He loves this, he's _good at this_ , and he takes to the task with enthusiasm.

Teasing the crown and the underside with his tongue, Tom hums happily, enjoying the tang on his tongue while he can; any minute now Chris is going to force himself deeper, feeding his precum directly down Tom’s throat, eluding his tastebuds.

“Did you miss my cock?” Chris asks around a gasp, holding himself at the root. He sounds distracted, the way he always sounds when Tom’s servicing him like this, but this question requires an answer.

Tom pulls off but doesn’t go far, sucking kisses along Chris’s shaft a few times for good measure. “Missed it so much,” he sighs, planting another kiss. “Miss everything about you. Your hands, your mouth, the way you taste and smell.”

_I ache for you._

Honestly, Tom could write poetic odes to Chris’s body.

“How do I smell?” Chris asks, sounding curious and amused.

Snaking out his tongue, Tom catches another bead of precum and savours it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. “Mmm, like sex.”

This time Chris does laugh.

“You’re fucking obsessed with me, aren’t you?” he says, and then he gets his feet back beneath himself and stands. Tom follows on his knees like a puppy, worried for just a second that Chris is about to leave. He lets out a relieved little breath when Chris only deposits himself heavily on the sofa, spreading his knees again and beckoning Tom in.

He's slouching low and lazy, and as he waits for Tom to crawl closer he lifts both of his arms above his head, folding his hands behind his head. The definition of his muscled triceps gives way to the gentle dip of his armpits and soft tufts of dark blond hair.

“What do I smell like here?” he asks, curiosity thick in his voice now, likes he's testing Tom, like he doesn't believe how much Tom savours the scent of him.

Tom moans, using his hands on Chris’s thighs to drag himself in. Like an addict he presses in as close as he can to Chris’s body and reaches up to squeeze the muscles of his arms.

Trailing his fingers lower makes Chris twitch but he doesn't move, waiting to see what Tom will do.

He sucks in a sharp breath when Tom presses in close, nuzzling his nose right in the soft bristles of Chris’s underarm hair.

He smells like soap and new sweat, barely any of the musk from between his legs, but Tom still inhales deeply and even lays a kiss there, noting that it pulls a noise from Chris’s chest that's almost like a moan.

“Still sex,” he murmurs, because everything about Chris’s body is sex to him. “You smell like sex all over.”

“Yeah?” Chris says, and then he's got a solid hold on the back of Tom’s head. “Do that again.”

With pleasure, Tom opens his mouth and licks a hot kiss into the hollow of Chris’s underarm, and Chris can't hold back his moan this time. It's an erogenous zone, but one they've never explored until now, and Tom feels almost dizzy as his senses fill with the scent and taste of Chris.

“Fuck,” Chris hisses through his teeth as Tom swipes his tongue again, practically making out with Chris’s armpit. “That feels weird.”

He means _good_ , that much is clear in his voice, but he tries to pull Tom away. In protest, Tom catches a few wisps of hair between his teeth and pulls hard.

Chris’s hiss is different then, _hurt_ , and he shoves Tom off and lays another solid slap across his cheek. Provoked this time, he puts a little too much force behind it and Tom sits back in surprise, little white stars clouding his vision as he cups his cheek to soothe himself.

Rubbing at his underarm, Chris scowls, but then he pulls Tom in by his wrist and tugs his hand away to see the damage.

“You asked for that,” he says, even as he rubs the back of his hand along the red welt Tom can feel forming there. Tom nods.

Pulling a face Chris wipes Tom’s mouth with his hand before leaning in to kiss him.

It's not an apology.

Chris’s cock is hard between them and he must decide it's time Tom started paying some attention to it again because he forces Tom’s face lower, and lower still until his mouth is just above the straining bob of his cock.

“Spit,” he orders.

Obediently Tom gathers a mouthful of saliva and purses his lips to let it dribble out over Chris’s length, reaching out to take it in hand - once he knows he has permission - and it makes a satisfyingly wet sound as he slides his fist up and down.

Once his cock is shiny all over with Tom’s spit, Chris knocks his hands out of the way and takes hold of himself at the root. Sharply he tilts and shoves Tom’s head until he’s resting his face against the top of his thigh, and then slaps his heavy cock against Tom’s cheek until it, too, is wet with spit and precum.

Tom’s expecting this slap when it comes, the sharp heat of it blossoming across his cheek, but not the way it echoes off the wooden floor and the stark, undecorated walls. It’s hard enough to really sting and he has no room to flinch away with his face nestled against Chris’s leg.

“Again?” Chris asks, palm already coming to rest against Tom’s cheek.

Tom blinks tears away and nods. “Harder.”

Chris’s lips curve up. The noise isn't as good this time, isn't as wet, but it hurts Tom all the same and he cries out, shuddering as his body accepts the buzzing pain of it like a gift.

The second he’s let go Tom drops back onto his heels and sucks in a couple of breaths, face buzzing and cock throbbing with a bruise-like ache where it strains against his underwear. In the bedroom there's a mirror and he gets a thrill from seeing how red and marked up Chris makes him, but out here he's going to have to rely on the feel of it.

“Come back here.” Chris crooks two fingers and Tom’s up in an instant with his mouth open. He thinks maybe he's due another smack but then Chris is taking hold of him, one hand at the top of his head and the other at the hinge of his jaw, and slowly he feeds him his cock.

It happens so quickly, Tom barely gets a chance to suck in a breath through his nose before the blunt tip of Chris’s cock is bumping at the soft, sensitive opening of his throat. Cleverly, Chris has his thumb jammed in between Tom’s back teeth so he can't close his mouth against the intrusion.

“Just let me in,” Chris encourages, pulling Tom in nice and slow. “Let me feel that tight, wet throat.”

He tries to open up for it without fuss, concentrating on the act of swallowing. As long as he doesn’t think too hard he’s capable of taking Chris deep and holding him there, has had Chris’s cock in his throat plenty of times, nose buried in the thatch of pubic hair that Chris kindly trims before he visits.

He feels and hears his throat click wetly around Chris’s cock as he swallows, and though his muscles try to fight it at first he’s able to calm them, almost gagging only once before gaining control. At this angle he can breath a little through his nose and he does.

“There you go,” Chris says, but Tom can tell he sounds a little disappointed. Some visits he wants Tom to take him like this, with practised ease, so he can call him all sorts of vulgar things even as he gently fucks his throat. But other times he wants to be rough, wants Tom to struggle and gag, to choke on his own spit while his throat is fucked.

Clearly it’s one of those visits.

True to Tom’s suspicion, Chris yanks him off, pressing Tom’s face hard against his thigh with the heel of his palm while he leans over him to reach for his discarded jeans. The buckle clangs against itself as Chris whips his belt free, and Tom wonders briefly whether he's about to get it across the tops of his thighs or if Chris might use it to tie his wrists together.

It's neither, he learns as he feels the cool leather settle across the back of his head. Chris has one end in each of his hands and his elbows are bent, ready to pull.

“Gonna fuck your throat now. Deep breath,” comes the command, clear, and as soon as Tom’s lungs are full Chris begins to pull both ends of the belt, dragging Tom in. Dutifully Tom opens his mouth, flattening his tongue.

It always makes his heart race, taking Chris deep, but there’s something about knowing he can’t pull away if he needs to that sends him into a near-panic. He’s staring at Chris with wide eyes for as long as he can, but as the girth of Chris’s cock slips further along his tongue to beg entry at the back of his throat again, he has to squeeze his eyes closed.

This time Chris isn’t gentle, forcing his way in without giving Tom any time to adjust. Tom gags, throat fighting against the fat head of Chris’s cock as it makes space for itself. He fights to get it under control but Chris pulls harder on the leather and Tom feels his throat shift around every inch, the familiar burn inside his throat as his instinct to close his throat is denied. When he gags again his chest contracts, his whole body attempting to fight the intrusion.

He hears himself gurgle and choke.

Chris moans loudly and when Tom forces his eyes open, fat tears spilling down his cheeks, he sees only the paler underside of Chris’s neck as he lets his head drop back against the sofa. It must feel good, must feel _really_ good or he wouldn’t do it so much, but Tom wouldn’t know because he’s never been on the receiving end of this. He’s here to be fucked and used, and use him Chris does.

To Tom it feels like suffocating, every squeeze of his throat like rubbing at a raw bruise, his eyes sting with fresh tears. Once it’s too much he can’t control the gagging anymore and, fingers scrabbling at Chris’s thighs, he tries his hardest to pull back against the belt.

“Hold on,” Chris lets out a long growl of pleasure, keeps him held there tight, and Tom makes a noise of alarm.

The belt loosens.

Tom backs off as much as he can, trying to suck in a deep breath, but before he’s had his fill of new air Chris is tightening his hold again, fucking back in, and Tom coughs and splutters as his own spit is shoved back down his throat.

Chris uses him like that for what feels like minutes, fucking in and out of his throat with little regard for Tom’s comfort, bullying his way past Tom’s tonsils over and over until Tom’s chest aches for breath and his chin and chest are dripping with drool.

Between one blink and the next Chris drops his head again, he’s a blur to Tom’s teary eyes but it’s clear that he’s watching now, observing how Tom is struggling.

“This is-” he breaks off to moan as Tom convulses again. He pulls him in so tight the leather of the belt creaks. “This is what you wanted, right?”

Eventually he must get too close to coming because he pulls off suddenly, belt released to drop with a clatter to the floor behind Tom’s feet.

“Fuck,” he groans, reaching out for Tom instinctively.

Tom needs a minute to catch his breath and Chris grants that, letting him rest his cheek high on his lap where he can lick kitten-like at the head of his cock. He knows better than to neglect his duties completely, taking Chris’s crown into his mouth to suckle and lick at it while he breathes deeply through his nostrils. Everything tastes and smells like Chris, and despite the tenderness in his throat Tom would stay here like this forever if he could, on his knees between Chris’s legs getting to please him.

With uncharacteristic patience Chris lets him gather himself, petting distractedly along the bridge of Tom’s nose and nudging a toe against the crotch of his underwear until he moans.

There's a viscous patch of drool on Chris’s leg beneath Tom’s chin.

“How do you think you did?” Chris asks, sounding genuinely curious. Tom knows he’s done better, so he only shrugs. His breath hitches when Chris finds the head of his cock with the arch of his foot and rubs. “Want to come and sit on my lap? Let me play with your hole?”

Tom doesn’t need asking twice. The second he’s sure Chris is serious he’s up, straddling Chris’s wide thighs and settling his weight down. He shivers pleasantly beneath Chris’s hands as he’s pulled in by the hips.

Chris wastes no time slipping his hand back into Tom’s underwear, and the spread of his thighs leaves him fully on display, slick entrance bared to Chris’s seeking fingers. He keens, high pitched and pleased, when Chris pats at his wrinkled pucker with two fingers.

“You need fucking?”

Tom nods, pushes his arse back. “Yes, please.”

Chris rubs him in slow circles, teasing, fingers catching on his tight rim despite how well slicked he is. “Need a deep, hard dicking, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Tom moans, pliant and wanting. His hips are aching already from the spread of his thighs but he doesn’t mind, not if he gets to ride Chris’s cock. Needy and kitten-like he rocks his hips back against Chris’s touch, slipping into a haze from the pleasant warmth that creeps over him.

But Chris sounds much less affectionate when he says, “Think you deserve it?”

The tone of his voice makes Tom take pause, hips freezing. Hesitantly he opens his eyes, meets Chris’s steely gaze.

“Yes?” he tries.

A little huff of not-quite-laughter. “Why?”

When Tom swallows hard he feels the evidence of his thorough facefucking, and he blinks. “...for...for taking your cock down my throat.”

Chris tilts his head slightly to the side, observing Tom’s face. His expression is unreadable for a long moment, but then he smiles a little.

“But sweetheart,” he strokes a deceptively gentle hand across Tom’s cheek. “That’s what you’re for.”

Tom yelps as he’s spun and manhandled until he’s lying across Chris’s lap, arse up like a school boy waiting to be spanked. A shudder runs through him as his underwear is dragged down to his knees, his stiff cock springing free against Chris’s thigh.

A sharp slap rings out into the room.

It tears a broken wail from Tom’s raw throat even though he had a second to anticipate the strike, and fire blossoms beneath the curve of his buttock.

“You need this today,” Chris tells him, voice filled with frustration and disappointment but, most importantly, arousal. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

He doesn't touch Tom between strikes, leaving him tight and tense, wound up and waiting.

Chris's hands have the span of dinner-plates and the next smack lands right across both of Tom’s buttocks, sharp and loud and much harder than the last. Tom’s eyes go wide and he grunts, doesn't quite cry out. It’s followed almost immediately by another slap across the tops of his thighs and it hurts more there, the skin more sensitive, and Tom can't swallow down his pain.

“Need to be put back in your place, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Tom whimpers, eyes pinched shut in anticipation of the next strike. His cock is practically pumping out precum onto Chris’s thigh, buttocks tightening up as he awaits the next burst of searing pain. “I’m bad.”

Chris palms roughly where his last hit handed. Tom can’t tell which is hotter, his own skin or Chris’s.

“No, you’re not bad,” Chris placates him. “You’re just too needy for your own good. So desperate for it you forgot your place. We can’t leave it so long next time, not if this is how you’re going to behave.”

Before Tom can agree, Chris lifts his hand again. He wracks Tom’s behind with smack after rhythmic smack, each one more violent than the last, barely giving one slap time to echo off the walls before laying another one down. Tom tries not to fight him but he feels as if his skin is on fire, and if he thought the bruising in his throat was bad it’s got nothing on this, on the tender throb beneath his skin.

“What are you for?” Chris asks, breathing hard.

Tom’s shaking, his head full of pain and need, but he doesn’t have to search for the right answer to this because all Chris wants is the truth. “For taking your cock.”

He half anticipates another smack but instead Chris’s hand smoothes up his back, gentle. “Good.”

Tom doesn’t need to look to know his buttocks and thighs are pink and inflamed, he can feel the heat of it. He hisses and struggles when Chris rubs at him with the palm of his hand, squeezing.

“You’re gonna think of me every time you sit down,” he hums, pleased with his handiwork. “What do you say?”

“Thank-” another hard slap lands at the top of his thigh, rattling him. “ _Fuck_ \- thank you.”

A strong grip around each of his upper arms encourages him back up on to his feet, his knees somewhat more shaky that they were before, and Chris stands with him. Bending he grabs the underwear clinging to Tom’s knees and tugs them down; he's not patient about it, slapping the back of Tom’s thighs again when he's not quick enough to lift his leg.

When he comes upright he’s got Tom’s underwear dangling from one finger.

“Look what you've done to these,” he says, rubbing his thumb and forefinger in a wet patch that has rendered the material transparent. Tom can't tell if it's lube or precum, and he suspects Chris can't either but it doesn't stop him from laying the dampness across his thumb and bringing it up to Tom’s mouth. “Taste yourself.”

Tom’s sore and desperate to come but he stands before Chris like a dutiful servant and sucks.

The blank, manufactured taste of lube and the darkness of Tom’s own musk hit his tastebuds as he does as he's told, but the barely-masked pleasure in Chris’s face is enough to leave Tom wholly unbothered by the fact that he's tasting lube that has leaked out of his own arse.

“There's nothing you won't do for me, is there?” Chris muses as Tom continues to suck the taste away.

When Tom had advertised for this, somebody available to regularly rough him up and use him for sex, he'd foolishly - desperately - used the phrase _anything goes_. Occasionally now he'll be doing something inane and his stomach will suddenly drop at the thought of how stupid that was, how dangerous.

He knows how lucky he is that Chris found him before anyone else did, Chris who hurts him the way he needs but clearly has his own unspoken boundaries. He's never hit Tom with a closed fist or broken his skin, he's never fucked him dry or tried to put anything weird inside him. He’s perfected the art of leaving Tom thoroughly sore and satisfied without incapacitating him.

There's nothing he won't do for Chris because he knows Chris would never ask too much.

By the time Chris pulls his thumb free all the taste is gone but Tom’s chin is wet and Chris looks for a moment like he's contemplating shoving him back down to his knees.

“You need fucking?” he says again, and despite the question garnering him a spanking last time Tom gives him a very clear nod.

“Please,” he says.

In a flash Chris has him beneath the elbow and is spinning him around, shoving him down until his chest hits the sofa cushions. He lets out an ‘oof’ but he’s grateful that he hasn’t been put down on his sore buttocks.

“Arse up,” Chris commands, and Tom whines as another ringing slap heats his right cheek.

The last thing he wants is another slap so he scrambles to acquiesce, but his feet slip in the puddle of drool left behind from his thorough facefucking, and he ends up in a half-kneel. Chris growls and yanks him back up, making sure his feet are steady with rough impatience before pressing against the small of his back until Tom arches.

“That’s it,” he says then, soothing like a flip has switched. He thumbs at the dimples of Tom’s lower back, sounding pleased when he orders, “Stay like that, show me that hole.”

Tom would reach back to present himself but he knows that’ll hurt so he arches impossibly further, spreads his feet carefully until he’s on display. Chris still reaches down to part his cheeks and he hisses, but is immediately soothed by the warm dribble of spit that lands just above his hole.

One finger circles him briefly, teasing, before Chris angles his wrist and sinks two of his thick fingers in past Tom’s resistance.

“Gonna get you all sloppy for me,” he says, matter of fact. “Get your hole wet like a cunt.”

A shudder travels the length of Tom’s spine. Chris says that sometimes, usually while he’s fucking Tom deep and telling him how good he feels, how _wet and tight and good_ he feels, and though Tom didn’t like it at first he’s come to appreciate the vulgarity of it. Besides, Chris owns his hole - he can call it what he likes.

Tom doesn’t fuck anyone else. He has no idea whether or not Chris does but they stopped using condoms almost a year ago and he trusts that Chris is safe. He likes to think that he’s the only one, that he’s enough.

His muscles contract around Chris’s fingers when he rotates his wrist down and seeks out Tom’s prostate, rubbing too-hard at it and making Tom’s cock pulse out another glob of precum onto the cushion.

Vaguely he wonders if he’s going to have to buy a throw to cover the evidence of this.

Chris’s breath brushes the base of Tom’s spine when he dips his head to kiss the skin there, down, down until he’s mouthing at the top of Tom’s arse. His beard feels harsh against Tom’s sore skin but his lips feel good so he endures it, overwhelmed by the dual sensations of being fucked with rough fingers and soothed with soft kisses.

There are three fingers in him then, stretching him, but Chris doesn’t slow his steady pace. He spits again when Tom’s rim begins to catch and drag on his knuckles, and Tom wishes he’d known they were going to fuck here so he could’ve brought the lube out.

“Want another?”

Tom isn’t sure he does but he nods anyway, letting out a ragged moan as he feels Chris jam four fingers inside. He’s nice about it, holding his fingers tightly together so they’re not much thicker than his cock as they enter, but his knuckles are impossibly wide so it’s a stretch whenever he presses deep, a tight heat flaring up at the rim of Tom’s muscle. Tom swears one day he’s going to slide his thumb in alongside them. He wouldn’t fight it.

“You’re greedy today,” Chris comments casually, twisting his wrist until he can curl his fingers upwards to rub against Tom’s prostate again to make him buck his hips. “Can’t wait to get my cock in you.”

He doesn’t wait long, and though Tom’s desperate for it he’s relieved when Chris goes off in search of the lube. He knows Tom’s bedroom, knows where he keeps it, so he’s back within half a minute.

Meanly he pumps a load of cold slick right into Tom’s waiting hole, humming pleased with himself when Tom hisses and complains. To placate him he slathers a handful of the cold liquid across Tom’s still-burning cheeks.

“Turn over,” he taps Tom on the hip. He doesn’t manhandle this time, just strokes himself while Tom turns and settles a cushion under his arse; technically it’s for the angle, but he does it as much to stop his sensitive skin rubbing the fabric.

They don’t always fuck face to face but Tom loves it when they do, loves watching Chris’s expression twist in concentration as he works at fucking Tom good and hard.

Gripping Tom’s ankles to part his thighs Chris steps in between them, angling his knees up so that he’s open and bared, ready to take everything Chris has to offer. He pushes one knee right up against Tom’s chest and encourages the other around his waist.

He doesn’t ask if Tom’s ready, doesn’t even glance at his face - he’s watching Tom’s hole, watching it flutter and purse as he rubs the head of his cock against it.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes, and then he’s pressing in.

One steady thrust has him sinking deep, deep, _deep_ , Tom’s body welcoming him in like an old friend, opening up and settling tight around him like a mould, like a perfect fit. He glides in all the way to the root, head nudging so deep inside it’s like he’s settled in Tom’s belly.

He stays there for a moment, eyes hooded, lips parted.

“You feel like a furnace,” he breathes, hips snapping forwards even though there’s nowhere to go. “Every time, so fucking hot and tight.”

Tom finds the fingers around his ankle and winds his own around them. Chris’s eyes open fully.

“You really were made for this, you know,” he says, a tight shake of his head. “There’s no way you’re better at anything else.”

It’s the best compliment Tom’s ever had.

He clenches tight when Chris begins to pull out, not wanting to let go now that he’s finally stuffed full, but Chris only groans tightly at the hot tug of Tom’s body. He comes free all the way, cockhead resting over the gape of Tom’s hole, perfectly sized just for him. They both moan low when he presses back in all the way.

“Tell me…” he says, lifting Tom’s foot to his mouth and biting hard at the soft underside, hard enough that Tom’s toes curl against his cheek and his back arches up off the sofa. He comes _this close_ to kicking Chris in the face, and for his efforts he gets an even harder bite that forces a hoarse cry out of him.

His foot throbs even after Chris has lowered it, and Tom suspects that’ll be a mark he gets to keep for a while.

“Tell me how it feels when I fuck you. When I hurt you.”

Tom’s throat opens wet around a short cry as Chris drags his cock free again. “Best thing I’ve ever felt,” he says, knowing it probably sounds like an exaggeration. “So big and hot, love your cock, want your marks on me always-”

He breaks off to grunt when Chris powers to the centre of him again, ripples of pleasure like a shockwave when he catches Tom’s prostate. There’s no way he can put it into words, how alive he is when Chris is in him.

“ _God_ , so good,” he settles with, in the end. “Fuck me, fuck me please.”

He’s filled to excess with lubricant so when Chris grants his wish and begins to fuck him in earnest the room is filled with obscene sounds, the wet pull of Tom’s body trying to keep Chris’s cock and the slap of skin against skin each time Chris drives in again.

For no reason at all except that he wants to, Chris pushes two fingers into Tom’s mouth, all the way until they’re teasing at the back of his throat. He coughs, gags, and then Chris’s fingers come away wet, a line of spit connecting them to Tom’s lower lip. Carelessly he smears his wet hand across Tom’s mouth and cheek, leaving him covered in his own drool.

“Look at you, you filthy bitch,” he breathes, but then he’s surging down to take Tom’s mouth in a brutal kiss. Hot and forceful he dominates Tom’s mouth, slides and twists his tongue along Tom’s own, harsh exhales through his nose fanning warm against Tom’s cheek. He kisses Tom like he’s hungry, sucking and biting at Tom’s lips until they feel swollen.

When he pulls back he lets Tom have another slap but it’s not as hard as before, not even hard enough to turn his head, just enough to make him gasp, make his cock throb.

They stare at each other then, Tom feeling brave enough to maintain eye contact. Chris looks beautiful and angry as he fucks, forehead creased and lips parted as he puts all of his weight behind fucking Tom, ploughing in and out of him with steady, determined thrusts. Tom hiccups out a little breath each time he’s filled up, and he feels the corners of his eyes begin to tingle with the threat of tears. He’s needed this, so badly, for weeks now, counting the days until their visit. It’s the only thing he has to look forward to.

Some days it seems like Chris is everything.

The flat of Chris’s thumb catches the first tear as it falls, drags wet down his face to rest against Tom’s lips.

“That good, huh?” he murmurs, grunting with the next deep thrust.

“I…” Tom sucks in a wet breath, overwhelmed, barely even able to see straight through his tears. “I love you.”

He's said a lot of things in the height of their play but that one's new, and he chokes on his next breath, unable to anticipate the response.

There's only the briefest break in Chris’s rhythm, a barely-there pause in which his face slackens in surprise. When they first met he had long hair and soft, smooth cheeks, trendy and clean-cut like an athlete. He's bigger now, bearded, but still he's never looked as young as he does in the few seconds it takes him to process what Tom’s just said.

It passes as quickly as it comes, and then he's leaning in, breath harsh and hot against Tom's cheek as he growls, “You barely know me, you stupid slut.”

He treats Tom to a punishing thrust then, upping his roughness, shoving Tom’s knee even higher until he feels as if his hip might dislodge from the joint. The hairs on Chris’s thighs rub up against his sore skin and he whines.

“What you love is a fat cock in your arse and it wouldn't matter who it belonged to. Just need to be owned, don't you? Bet you'd let me fuck you within an inch of your life.”

Tom isn't sure which is scarier: the fact that he probably would allow Chris to fuck him half to death, or the fact that he's pretty sure some part of him really meant what he just said.

“Would you?” Chris breathes against him, hips working in steady, punishing thrusts. The sounds of skin on skin fill the room as his balls slap heavily against Tom’s arse and his hips clash with the meat of Tom’s red inner-thighs, and Tom’s not sure he really requires a verbal response.

He says yes anyway.

“You know the thought of someone else touching you drives me insane?” Chris confesses then, teeth clenched like he’s angry at Tom for making him feel that way. It’s almost as if, in his own way, he’s making the same confession as Tom. “I think you mean it when you say I own you.”

He fucks into Tom hard enough to rattle him.

“You better mean it.”

Tom’s fingers scramble at Chris’s chest, nails digging in deep enough to leave red welts. He’s not allowed to mark Chris, he’s never been, but he couldn’t let go now if his life depended on it.

“I do,” he whimpers, wishing his voice was stronger but too caught up in the fucking he’s on the receiving end of. “I really do.”

After that there are no more words between them, no more filth spills from Chris’s lips. He just fucks Tom deeply and meticulously like he needs. They grunt and huff in unison, barely more than animals, driven by their need.

Just like every time, it’s a profound experience for Tom; every inane, exhaustingly boring moment of his day to day life is bearable only because he has this to look forward to. He’s nothing when he’s not being fucked, he’s worthless and dull like an old penny but Chris’s cock punching deep inside him awakens sparks in the very core of him, makes him feel shiny and wanted, like a prized possession.

Reaching up, Chris twists his fingers cruelly in Tom’s hair, a stinging burn on his scalp, and with the next deep thrust Tom is coming, throat tight around a broken cry. It’s a whole body experience, ecstasy, and he shudders and shakes with it, spurt after spurt of come pooling out onto his own abdomen as Chris fucks him through his orgasm.

Chris holds him down and uses him then, fucks him hard and steady, neglectful of Tom’s sensitivity. As if each of Tom’s pained gasps is like music to his ears he seeks the next one, bullying his way inside Tom’s still-pulsing channel with abandon, driven on by his own animalistic need to come.

Finally pulling out he shoves urgently at Tom, grabs his hip and manhandles him onto his knees.

“Arch your back,” he orders, heavy hand at the base of Tom’s spine.

Coming down from his own haze Tom feels tiredness setting in, deep in his bones, but he presents himself for Chris, still needy for his come.

“Let me see your hole,” Chris grits out, yanking Tom’s arms roughly behind him until he gets the picture, hissing as he spreads his cheeks to show Chris his handiwork. His fingertips pull hot and tight but he holds still, hears Chris groan in appreciation. He can only imagine how well-used he looks, puffy and pink and glistening with lube.

Chris’s harsh breaths climb as he fists his cock, guttural groans spilling from his chest and turning to growls as he grits his teeth. His other hand takes a bruising hold of Tom’s hip, thick fingertips like a burn on his skin, tighter and tighter as the slick rhythm of his hand on his cock speeds up.

He comes in hot bursts onto Tom’s hole and the tips of his fingers where he holds himself open, the solid muscles of his thighs nudging rhythmically against the back of Tom’s as he tenses and twitches with each pulsating wave.

It seems to take a while; he always has a lot of come for Tom like he, too, abstains when they're apart.

Once he's emptied his load, milked himself of the last drop, Chris lets out a long, satisfied sigh. Gently his fingertips trail over Tom’s hot skin through the mess he's left, scooping up his come and pushing it towards Tom’s twitching hole.

“Don't worry, I know you want my come,” he says, lining himself up. An odd, high-pitched little grunt escapes Tom’s throat as Chris presses his cock back inside, one slow thrust until he’s fully seated. He stays there, deep, and strokes along the bumps of Tom’s spine. “Always give you what you want, don’t I?”

Tom can’t argue.

-

Tom’s plating up the food as Chris wanders through from the bathroom, barefoot and still towelling his hair dry. He has his jeans on, open, and despite the ache in Tom’s muscles and the bruised tightness of his throat when he swallows, he has the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and press his mouth against the golden ‘v’ of skin visible between the splayed zipper.

“Thanks,” Chris murmurs as he sits down. As soon as the plate is in front of him he's eating, not waiting for Tom to join him.

It’s only pasta but he seems to like it, letting out occasional, appreciative hums. He eats like he fucks; with singular attention, like nothing else exists. Tom enjoys watching him.

They don't talk. They rarely ever talk outside of the sex. It'd ruin the illusion.

The thrill of getting roughed up and fucked by a stranger would be somewhat diminished if that person was no longer a stranger, and so early-on in their arrangement they'd agreed: no small talk, no details. It’s what Tom had needed at the time, nameless, filthy sex that left him feeling equal-parts satisfied and thoroughly ashamed. His good, Catholic-boy upbringing wouldn’t allow for anything else. It was Tom’s rule and Chris had agreed to it.

But that was nearly two years and now, sometimes - most of the time - Tom wants to break his own rule. He still wants Chris to fuck him and hurt him, to handle him so easily and roughly with those big hands, to control him...but he wants other things too. Wants to ask Chris about his day, about his past, about his plans for the future.

He wants Chris to be the opposite of a stranger.

Last time he fed Chris he almost invited him to stay the night, caught up in the vision of him at the breakfast table, all casual and domestic, and wanting it to happen again sooner rather than later. He managed to swallow the words before they slipped free. He doesn't know how accepting Chris would be if he knew how drastically Tom’s needs had changed.

So Tom sits and tries to enjoy the quiet like he used to do.

“You have a bruise on the back of your left thigh,” Chris says suddenly. It's weird to hear his voice like that, normal and unlaboured, curious rather than dark and low with arousal. He's watching Tom’s face carefully. “Just beneath your arse. I didn't do it.”

It’s normal - _preferable_ \- for Chris to leave him marked up, fingerprint bruises at his hips and his inner thighs, teeth marks and love-bites around his throat and jaw and nipples. Tom likes them, likes to rub at them and remember how they got there. If ever he finds himself without bruises he knows they’ve left it too long between visits.

Chris seems to like them too, likes to rub at the yellowing, mostly-healed ones from his last visit while inflicting new ones. His eyes light up whenever he does something that leaves an instant mark - except for one time. Over a year ago now, he'd tied Tom’s hands behind his back and used the rope as leverage while he fucked him from behind. Tom had loved it, had gone hoarse from screaming, but afterwards Chris had rubbed at the deep, red ridges around Tom’s wrists for a long time, brow furrowed in obvious concern. Tom had told him it was alright, he'd like it, but Chris had left shortly after. He’d never done anything like it since.

The bruise on the back of Tom’s thigh he got while playing doubles tennis with Robert from accounts. They’d been on the same team but Robert had gotten a little overzealous with one of his serves and whacked the ball, full-speed, right at Tom.

He says so with a loose shrug, smiling softly. Chris let's out a short, thoughtful hum before turning his attention back to his food.

“So when do you want to see me again?” he asks once he’s nearly done. He often talks with his mouth half-full. Inexplicably, Tom finds it incredibly endearing.

Another shrug. He's always shrugging around Chris, probably because that’s his role here: passivity. “I'll have to call you, I'm not sure right now. I have...I’ll be busy for a while.”

He used to say it because he didn’t want Chris to know exactly how much power he had over him, but he’s not lying this time.

Chris nods, mopping up the last of the sauce with a chunk of bread. Tom wants to offer him a second bowl, wants to make sure Chris is all full and taken care of the way Chris does for him, but he knows that the visit is coming to its natural end. Chris is about to leave.

He walks him to the door. It’s a little awkward, stilted, but it tends to be afterwards, when everything goes quiet and what they’ve done settles over them. Chris looks so wide in the narrow hallway, shoulders filling the space. Tom doesn’t want him to leave. He wants Chris to stay and crowd up against him in bed, to wake him in the early hours and fuck him hard, muffling his cries with the hard press of his palm.

He could ask, he thinks, but he’s afraid that the answer will be no.

“Thanks for coming,” he says as Chris opens the door, yellow light from the hallway outside spilling in, too-bright, to illuminate half of his face. “I really...I needed it.”

Pausing with his hand still on the door, Chris turns fully back to Tom. He looks at him for a moment, gaze heavy, and Tom looks back even though his instinct is to drop his eyes in submission.

There isn’t much Chris does these days that surprises Tom, but he’s stunned by the soft kiss he’s pulled into. Chris’s hand is on his throat again but this time it’s gentle, coaxing rather than demanding, and when he licks into Tom’s mouth it’s slow and soft.

“Any time.” he says earnestly, and for the first time in a long time Tom wonders just how young he is. He brushes Tom’s curls away from his forehead, knuckles him beneath the chin. “Take care of yourself. No more bruises that aren’t mine.”

Dazed, Tom nods. He can’t keep that promise, but he’ll try.

Then Chris is gone, closing the door softly behind him and leaving Tom in the silence of his own home. He shivers, feeling as if Chris has taken all the warmth with him.

The last kiss lingers on his lips as he pads into his bedroom to get his dressing gown, as he goes through the motions of making a cup of tea, as he settles into bed.

Reaching to shut off the lamp his eyes catch on his phone resting atop the bedside table. He picks it up, typing out a quick message and sending it before he can lose his nerve.

**_Maybe next time you could stay the night._ **

The reply, unexpectedly quick, sparks a giddiness in the pit of his stomach that threatens to keep him awake for hours.

_**Just tell me when.** _


End file.
